Falling
by Laser Lance 720
Summary: "The prospect of falling sounds too good to pass up. How easy it would be. All too easy really. That thought scares you more than you care to really admit, yet you keep thinking it."


Written for **Variety of Prompts** (Word: Emptiness), **Same 'Ol People, Same 'Ol Music** (Forever Till The End, Framing Hedley).

AN: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything associated to it really.

-oOo-  
-oOo-  
Now all that's left is silence and remorse,  
We sleep without the solace anymore,  
A haven in my head for dreams long since severed,  
The left us here for dead, but we will live forever….  
-Forever Till The End: Framing Hedley  
-oOo

You can't help but run when it gets too tough. It's not like you do it on purpose, but you're a creature of habit and that bathroom just seems like paradise compared to the outside world. There hadn't been anything to trigger it this time. Normally all it takes is a glare from Potter, or a glance from Dumbledore or a sigh from Snape… this time though it hadn't been any of those things. You'd just simply seen your own reflection in a foggy window and that was enough to send you scrambling.

Of course the mirror in front of you is doing nothing to assist in your break down. You don't want to look up, you don't want to look anywhere but the white sink you're gripping onto, but you can't help it. You look up.

You want to vomit. You nearly do. You would have had there been anything in your stomach to throw up.

The face staring back can't be you, but you know it is. Eyes that lack any luster, skin so pale you're sure you can spot a vein or two through it, and so frail, so weightless that you wonder how you're even holding yourself up.

You remember your grip on the sink basin, and realize that it's the only thing supporting you. Your legs are so wobbling there's a chance you'll fall if you step back. You almost want to test that theory though. The prospect of falling sounds too good to pass up. How easy it would be. All too easy really. That thought scares you more than you care to really admit, yet you keep thinking it.

Falling.

Falling.

Fall...

You remember a time when you used to smile. When there had been a smirk to your lips and a shine to your eyes. A time when you didn't look and feel like absolute shit. When was that time, you ask yourself, where is that boy?

That time – that boy – was long gone now. In his place is the disgusting, empty, mess that you're seeing now. A pitiful excuse for the Malfoy name really.

Your head is bowed and a sob racks your body. You don't stop it though. There's no point anymore. Father always said that crying was weakness. Crying was the beginning of failure. Crying wasn't befitting a Malfoy.

So why shouldn't you cry now? He's right after all. Crying's for the weak, the failures; isn't that what you are now? You're weak, pathetic, insignificant, and you know it. So why keep denying it? Why bottle up the tears when you know that they won't make a difference. In the end you'll still always be this fuck up, and rather or not you cry really won't change a thing. So why fight it?

Myrtle is trying to talk to you. She's pleading for you to confide in her. You've done it so many times before that you almost open your mouth and do so. But you don't, because you've come to realize that it won't change anything. There's nothing this girl can do to help you, and it was about time you stopped kidding yourself that she could.

She was useless. She was pathetic. She was dead. You want to scream all these things at her. You want to tear her down and destroy her, because that's all you really know how to do. To tear apart and destroy. It was all you were taught.

Look where it got you. You're useless. You're pathetic. You might as well be dead.

"…_no one can help me…" _You barely realize the fact that you had spoken. You seem to still be speaking. "… _I can't do it…. I can't…"_

You're crying. Gods are you crying. Harder than you ever have before because there's nothing to stop you now. There's no father to tell you to dry your eyes and stop making a fuss. No mother to whip the tears away and tell you that it will be alright. No aunt to threaten you with more tears should you keep it up. No _friends_ to laugh and take advantage of your weakness.

You're alone aside from Myrtle… and the presence in the doorway.

You see his face in the mirror. He looks a mix of worried and apprehensive. You want to beat the look of pity out of his eyes. He has no right to look at you like that. No right to look so superior.

You have no right to tell him otherwise. You're crying into a grimy sink, and can barely stand. You can hardly breathe through the gasps and gulps. Potter has all right to look at you like you're nothing, because you are nothing.

You are nothing compared to the precious Chosen One. The Savior of the Wizarding World. The Boy Who Lived. The Hero…

Without a thought – because really is there any coherent thought going through your mind anymore – you whirl around to face the intruder. Your hand is on your wand, more out of instinct than anything else. Potter pulls out his own wand, and something inside you snaps.

The curse shots from your wand, but you don't remember casting it. It doesn't matter though because you've shattered some lamp and Potter takes that as war. He fires back, you block.

Part of you wants to know what would happen should Potter's spell hit you. Would you actually feel something? It's been so long since you've felt anything. You bloke his spells though because your pride can't have it any other way. Tear faced, dueling it out in a bathroom, and yet your pride still clings to life.

Myrtle's screaming for you to stop. She's pleading for it. Her voice is bouncing around the room. You want to heed her request. You don't like hearing her so distressed. It's unclear at what point you began to actually care about the dead girl, but the fact is that she's the only one who's been there. You're only tether to life.

How sad. Your only life raft is a dead girl.

Potter's spell nearly hits you square in the face. It's by pure luck you slip on some water and stumble out of the way. The spell hits behind you. Water is shooting everywhere now.

Myrtle screams in fear.

You can't take this anymore. You can't keep dodging and crying and hiding and… you don't want this anymore. As you raise your wand, you catch sight of Potter's face. He looks frightened and enraged. Good, you think. The angrier he is, the better chance he'll end it.

It's a spell you know all too well first hand. It's one you've never cast before, but felt enough times that you know what to do. It doesn't even sound like your voice as you scream the curse; "Cruci–"

Whatever curse Potter sends at you does the trick. You don't feel it at first, and that's what angers you most. The blood is spouting out of your torso and dripping down your face and all you can feel is numb. There's nothing.

Finally your legs stop struggling to support you. In a stumble, you wobble back a few steps and ultimately topple onto the waterlogged floor. You feel it than. The cold water is a comfort against your back. There's such a searing pain in your chest that you can't help but to try and pull it away. Your hands are too shaky, too frail to find release.

You're not sure what kind of release you're searching for.

Potter is beside you. Myrtle is screaming above you. You don't know which one you want to scream to quiet first. Myrtle's wails will attract attention. You're not quite sure if you want that or not. Really, you're not sure of much.

Potter doesn't seem to know what to do. He's just staring at you and you want to smirk back in response. Say something sarcastic, maybe insult his lack of person grooming. If you really are going out here and now, you want it to be in a bang.

You don't say anything though. Your body hurts too much, and there's a good chance that if you open your mouth you'll only scream – what you'll scream for is unclear.

Snape's there by your head. You're pretty sure he's just an illusion brought on by blood lose. It seems fitting to have a familiar face lead you off to Hell.

But Snape is real. He's oh so real and healing you. His lips are flapping in fast repetition, wand moving over your body. It still hurts, but not as much as before. For that fact alone you decide you hate the man. This was your one chance for escape and he's pulling you back. You try to push his hand away, you try to speak, to beg him to leave you there on that floor, but you can't.

You don't have the strength to move.

The strength to speak.

The strength to die.

You look away and spot Potter. He's still just kneeling there, staring at you like he can't believe what he's seeing. There's blood on his pants, as well as the cuffs of his shirt. It sickens you that your blood is on him. It also gives you a great taste of irony. You hope the great Chosen One can never wash what he has done from his conscious – a noble a thought that piece of the soul is. If you have to live through this – there's no doubt about it now because you can tell feel your body rejoicing in its newfound life – you hope Potter has to suffer as well.

Snape's talking now, trying to explain things to you. He helps you sit up. You hear his voice, but you don't hear his words. Its all very unclear and everything's moving too quickly for you to keep up. Its like you just came out from having your head under the water.

You only catch maybe every other couple of words at the best. He's saying something about the hospital wing. There's the mention of scaring and you don't hear the rest of that sentence.

Snape is breathing heavily and looks haggard from the ordeal. You want to once more scream at these people. You just about died and you're reacting better than these three. Myrtle is in hysteric, looks like she's about to pass out - probably would have if she could. Potter hasn't moved from that one spot and he's as still as a statue, horror etched into his face. Snape is breathing heavily. There's a look of relief in his eyes.

Something is said, but you don't think it was directed to you so you don't pay it any mind; you probably wouldn't have paid it mind even if it had been about you.

You're made to stand. It's a slow going process, your whole body is lagging and fights each movement you make. Snape is supporting you and you're debating about rather to stick to that decision to hate him or not. It's a complicated argument; points made on both sides.

You're guided from the bathroom, and if you had the strength to fight you would. There's no doubt in your mind that stepping into the hall is a bad idea. You can't fight though. You don't have the strength to do anything other than be guided along.

After all, if it wasn't for Snape's arm around your waist you'd probably fall.

You almost want to test that theory.

-oOo-  
"We spend time that's left just praying for release,  
Someone to take this place and make it better."  
-Forever Till The End; Framing Hedley.  
-oOo-  
-oOo-


End file.
